


From the Void Abyss by Myriads Came

by Cinaed



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aliens, Community: go_exchange, Future Fic, Gen, IN SPACE!, Male Friendship, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Humans, having received proof of intelligent life on another planet, are sending a manned spacecraft to visit an alien race that calls itself the Siigan. Aziraphale is tasked to keep the spacecraft from exploding along the way. Unfortunately for him, Crowley decides to tag along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Void Abyss by Myriads Came

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mybrokenlocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybrokenlocket/gifts).



> The title comes from the poem "Song of the Stars" by William Cullen Bryant. Thanks go out to the awesome ailelie for beta-reading this for me and googlebrat for her help and suggestions!

 You might think that the human population, having improved their technology enough to make contact with an alien race and build a spaceship to travel to that alien’s world, would have realized the importance of reading instructions.

Peter Adamou was quickly realizing this wasn’t the case. Peter was in charge of weighing all personal belongings currently being loaded onto the ship headed to-- well, the planet was actually called something unpronounceable in the Siigan native tongue, an issue the diplomats and translators were still working on and swore would be resolved by the time they reached said planet.

Peter and the others had taken to calling it Siigani, more interested in speculating what the Siigan actually looked like, since all contact had been through radio and a few data bundles for engineers to drool over as they built a ship that could conceivably get to the Siigan world.

Peter suspected that this particular assignment was a punishment by his immediate supervisor for a sin he didn’t remember committing. “Fifty pounds,” he repeated for what felt like what the fiftieth time and was…well, probably the fiftieth or so time. It seemed that all seventy chosen for the mission had chosen to ignore the packing directions.

The man in front of him -- a Mister A. Fell according to his boarding pass and identification -- blinked owlishly from behind wire-rimmed glasses. An eccentric then, for no one had needed to wear glasses in about fifteen years[1] . Peter wondered how a possible Luddite had gotten through the numerous personal interviews. Didn’t all Luddites want to sabotage the mission?

“Excuse me?” Fell asked in a polite but nevertheless bemused tone, as though he had no idea whatsoever what Peter was saying.

Peter resisted the urge to grind his teeth, though his jaw actually ached from the temptation. “Each person gets 50 pounds of personal items to bring aboard, not an ounce more,” he explained. “So you’ll have to get rid of…” He paused to check the weight again, and resisted the urge to sigh. “…fifty-five pounds.”

Fell’s eyes widened. “But my _books_!”

“Your…books?” Peter repeated, incredulous. The man couldn’t possibly be bringing old _print_ books…. How in the hell _had_ this man slipped through the approval process? He frowned. “Sir, you are going to need to dispose of some of--”

“Dispose?” Fell’s befuddled demeanor vanished for a moment, and for a second Peter could swear he wore a deadly expression. A second later, though, Fell was smiling sweetly. “Mr. Adamou, I think you should check the weight again.”

“Check again?” A bit unnerved, Peter obeyed. A second later, he frowned, squinting at the numbers. The weight was exactly fifty pounds. He checked a fourth time, but the weight remained the same. Peter must have read the scales wrong the first time. “Sorry about that, sir--”

“Well, well, well. _Someone_ ’s being a naughty angel,” drawled the man behind Fell, the words thick with amusement.

Strangely enough, Fell jumped and looked guilty, as though he’d magically tweaked the scales himself, scarlet staining his cheeks. “Oh, and what are _you_ bringing, Crowley?” Fell asked, turning to frown at the man behind him.

The man, who must be D. Crowley[2], looked unperturbed by the question, though his expression was rather hard to decipher with the large sunglasses that dominated his face. He shrugged. “My plant,” he said, and it was only then Peter saw that he held a small potted plant in the crook of his arm. Funny, that; Peter would’ve sworn that Crowley’s arms were empty a second ago.

“Your plant,” Fell repeated flatly. “And what happened to the others, then?”

Crowley smiled, but it wasn’t a particularly _nice_ expression, one with thin lips and no showing of the teeth so that the man looked almost serpentine for an instant. “They didn’t make the cut.”

Fell sighed a put-upon sigh. “Did you have the plant checked out? We can’t have your plant poisoning the Siigan.”

Crowley’s smile twitched. “I can assure you, angel, this plant won’t harm the aliens.”

Fell squinted suspiciously at him for a moment, but finally seemed satisfied with the answer.

Peter, who’d been too caught up in the exchange to interrupt, found himself interjecting a weak, “Well, actually, I believe unauthorized plants aren’t allowed aboard….” He trailed off as both Fell and Crowley stared at him.

“I’ve got authorization,” Crowley said after a moment.

“From who? Hoffman?” Peter asked. Crowley’s expression didn’t change, but Peter nevertheless got the impression that the man had blinked.

“I am certain Crowley received authorization with the captain,” Fell agreed.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley said airily. “Captain Hoffman and I are close. In fact, you might call us brother--”[3]

“And sister,” Fell interjected with a certain emphasis on the last word. Then he narrowed his eyes at Crowley. “I am quite certain that the captain will allow Crowley’s plant, Mr. Adamou. She is, ah, _quite_ the fan of horticulture, I’m told.”

Peter was beginning to get a headache, and he was only two-thirds of the way through his current assignment. “Okay,” he said, and checked them both off the list with two hasty taps on his tablet. “You’re in cabin D4, Mr. Fell, and you’re in….” Peter squinted at the form, surprised. “A3, Mr. Crowley.”[4]

“A3?” Fell hissed. Crowley just looked innocent. After a second, Fell forced a smile on his face and nodded at Peter. “Thank you, Mr. Adamou.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Peter said, hoping they’d go. And they did, Peter breathing a silent sigh of relief as he turned to the next person in line, a woman with at least three more bags than she was allowed.

 

* * *

* * *

 

“A3,” Aziraphale was still muttering under his breath as he followed Crowley into the demon’s cabin, huffing a little from exasperation as well as the effort of actually dragging the container of books behind him and pretending to be human.

Crowley was obviously trying not to smirk and failing. Then again, Aziraphale doubted that he was trying very hard. “I’m sorry that you’re in D4,” Crowley said with no apparent sincerity in his voice. “But you can always come and visit when you’re feeling a bit cramped with your books in such a small room.” Then he raised an eyebrow and added thoughtfully, “Oh, but I forgot. You only have fifty pounds of books, not a hundred and five. You’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale blushed again. “I couldn’t just leave them behind,” he protested, setting the container down in the corner of Crowley’s room and struggling not to feel guilty about his trick with the scales. “Do you _know_ how people of this time period view books?”

“That print books are a waste of valuable resources?” Crowley drawled. “And electronic books are the only sensible, responsible way to read?”

Aziraphale felt most of his shame go, replaced by irritation at Crowley’s obvious glee at this generation’s universal foolishness.[5] “Well, I suppose I could always put some of my books in your room, you’ve certainly enough space,” he said tartly. “And you and your plant might get lonely otherwise.”

The remark did not have quite the sting he’d wished, for Crowley grinned. “Did you think the plant was the only thing I brought?” he said. Then, to Aziraphale’s surprised delight, he set the plant carefully on the floor and pulled a bottle of wine out from under his jacket.

“Is that--”

“Saint-Emillion? Of course,” Crowley said, sounding far too pleased with himself. He waggled the fingers of his free hand, and three glasses appeared. “And now a drink to this mission that will probably doom the human race!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said reproachfully. “The Siigan sounded like perfectly nice aliens from their transmissions.”

“They always do,” Crowley muttered, and ignored Aziraphale’s reminder that this was their first time encountering any aliens and that alien invasions from the cinema and telly didn’t count as examples. Then Crowley asked in a too-casual tone, “So, what do the ineffable powers want you to do on this trip? Make nice with the aliens?”

Aziraphale held still as Crowley poured the red wine into the glasses, both careful not to spill a drop, even though they could conceivably just wave a hand and get some more. Aziraphale wondered at the third glass, into which Crowley poured a small quantity. “Mostly keep the ship intact,” he admitted. “The Siigan were nice enough to send instructions on building a galaxy-crossing ship, but you know humans and instructions.”

“As bad as angels with instructions?” Crowley said, and ignored Aziraphale’s look. “So you’re here to keep everyone from dying.”

“Essentially,” Aziraphale agreed, and then felt a niggle in the back of his mind. The pilots were testing the engines, one of which was heating up too quickly. A few seconds more and the engine would explode, taking out the other five. He frowned, concentrating. “The ship’ll be taking off at half-past three,” he reported after a moment, nodding in satisfaction.

He noticed then that the wine in the smaller glass was empty. The rich smell of spilled wine filling his nose, but there was no sign of a spill on the floor. Instead, the scent seemed to come from the potted plant. Aziraphale squinted. “Crowley, are you trying to get your plant inebriated?”

“It’s not a fan of space,” Crowley said with a mocking smirk, though whether that smile was directed at him or the plant, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely certain. The plant _had_ seemed to perk up at the wine, though, its vibrant purple-veined leaves quivering in apparent satisfaction. [6] Crowley raised an eyebrow. “No explosions to mark our departure, then?”

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “No, and don’t you get any ideas.” He let his eyes narrow further. “Why _are_ you here, Crowley?” He knew that Crowley didn’t want this mission to be a failure any more than Aziraphale did; they had been dining together when the news of alien contact had come, and Aziraphale had seen the flash of genuine excitement on Crowley’s face before the demon had masked it with cynicism and mutterings of how they’d been due for an alien invasion.

“Maybe I thought I’d miss your company,” Crowley drawled, but there was something in his expression that made a pointed remark die in Aziraphale’s throat, some hint of sincerity that bled through the sarcasm. After a few seconds of silence, Crowley shrugged and sipped again at his wine. “Curiosity, mostly. Those Below are too busy arguing about how to handle the aliens to make a decision, so I figured I’d meet the Siigan and see what the fuss was all about.”

Aziraphale searched Crowley’s expression again, but the demon’s look was unreadable. He considered things for a moment. Crowley had seemed honestly curious about the aliens, and Aziraphale knew for a fact that the engines hadn’t been tampered with. Perhaps Crowley really was just here for the adventure. Still, it never hurt to be certain.

Aziraphale reached out and slid the sunglasses off Crowley’s face, watched his companion blink, the brille rather than human eyelids covering his eyes in his surprise. “And you don’t plan on causing a war between the humans and the Siigan?”

“No,” Crowley said. Without the sunglasses, Aziraphale could see the slight twitch in his right eye, the one that meant Crowley was getting irritated. He always did when he had to tell the truth. “I figure that the humansss can ssstart a war on their own without my help.” His forked tongue flicked out, tasting the air, and his eye twitched again as Aziraphale continued to study him. “Finissshed with your interrogation, angel, or do you have more questionsss?”

Aziraphale silently offered the sunglasses back. “A toast to the success of the mission,” he said, once Crowley’s eyes were hidden behind the glasses again, and raised his glass.

“A toast to the mission,” Crowley agreed.

 

* * *

 

The trip itself was less of a disaster than Aziraphale expected, and he wound up with more free time than he knew what to do with.[7]

He spent most of his free time among his books, ensuring that space travel wasn’t doing them any damage, and the rest of his time with Crowley, drinking wine and arguing whether or not the Siigan and humans would get along.

From what he saw of Crowley outside his room, the demon liked to wander the ship, causing petty squabbling among the crew and carrying his plant wherever he went like a third arm. Perhaps the latter was Crowley’s way of keeping the plant in its place, a means of intimidation. Aziraphale had caught Crowley more than once muttering of outer space to the plant, presumably threatening to launch it outside if it didn’t grow properly.

The months of travel proved far less eventful than Metatron had told Aziraphale to expect, and when the announcement came that they would be arriving at the Siigan world[8] in three hours, Aziraphale felt a bit relieved that the tedium was finally over.

He carefully closed the book he’d been reading and turned to where Crowley stood in front of his window, staring into space. “That’s that, then,” Aziraphale said, sighing. “I will just have to wait until it’s time to head back to Earth and keep the ship intact on the return journey.” He paused then, because Crowley hadn’t turned to look at him, hadn’t, in fact, looked at him since before the captain had made her announcement. Aziraphale added, a bit more severely, “I was told not to interfere with the first meeting, so I trust you will too.”

“Er,” Crowley said.[9]

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. “Crowley, you promised not to start a war,” he hissed.

“And I haven’t! If the humans and the Siigan go to war, it’s the humans’ own fault!” Crowley argued. As Aziraphale stepped closer to him, he caught Crowley’s expression in the window’s reflection. It looked hunted.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said slowly, a creeping sort of dismay moving through him. “What have you done?”

“I told you the truth, that first night on the ship,” Crowley said, finally turning to face him. Despite his words, he sounded almost guilty. “I said I’d wanted to meet the Siigan and see what the fuss was all about. I just…didn’t mention I’d already been.”

“Already been--” Aziraphale stopped and stared. “You’ve already met the Siigan?”

“Er,” Crowley said again as Aziraphale winced. “Yes. And…so have you and most of the crew.”

Aziraphale’s eyes had gone so wide that they actually ached. “Crowley, what are you--”

“He is referring to me,” a quiet, whispery voice said behind them. The voice sounded like the way the trees murmured in the wind, and Aziraphale wasn’t surprised, when he turned, to see that Crowley’s plant had bloomed a sunflower-like head that turned up towards Aziraphale. Somehow, despite it not having eyes or a mouth, the “face” of the Siigan nevertheless gave the impression of a smile. “Greetings, Aziraphale. It is a pleasure to finally speak with you.”

Aziraphale stared for a moment. “Oh dear.”

“Thank you for the wine,” the Siigan continued, unperturbed by Aziraphale’s dismay and astonishment. “It was greatly appreciated.”

“You’re welcome,” Aziraphale said automatically. “Does anyone else--”

“No,” the Siigan said gently. “I thought it best to observe the humans first. They have changed much since we last encountered them.”

“You’ve met humans before?” Aziraphale darted a glance towards Crowley, but Crowley looked just as surprised. Apparently the Siigan hadn’t mentioned that particular fact when it had asked Crowley to help it stow away on the ship.

“A long time ago, yes. The first meeting did not go well, and my ancestor thought it best to leave the humans alone for a time.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, though he didn’t, not really. “And-- and what do you think of the humans now?”

“They have matured greatly.” Still without anything on its flower-head to give it expression, the Siigan nevertheless managed to convey an air of wry amusement. “At the very least none of them have tried to eat me, which is a point in their favor.”

“ _Eat_ you?” Crowley said.

“Yes.” The Siigan’s petals fluttered for a moment. “Metatron apologized for misunderstanding, but my ancestor felt that our race did not belong on the same planet as your humans.[10] In the end, the….” It paused then, tendrils twitching in a bothered way. “I am sorry, I cannot remember what your humans called it. The Garden? My ancestor took itself and the rest of the Garden to the new world.”

For the first time in their long, long history, Aziraphale saw Crowley actually blush in embarrassment. “Er,” Crowley said for the third time. “So _that_ ’s why that particular tree was forbidden. I thought it was just Him being, you know, Him….”

“The Tree of Knowledge!” the Siigan said triumphantly, loud enough that both Aziraphale and Crowley both jumped. “That is what your humans called my ancestor.” It seemed to preen. “My ancestor _was_ very wise.”  

“And, ah, not happy about the whole eating its…child, I suppose?” Crowley said, looking anywhere but at the Siigan.

“No,” the Siigan said shortly, amusement gone.

After an awkward moment, Aziraphale took pity on Crowley and said, “And so you asked Crowley to help you steal aboard the ship and witness how humans act behind the diplomats, to see if they truly changed? It was kind of you to help, Crowley.”

He hadn’t intended it as an insult, except perhaps to needle Crowley a bit for keeping the Siigan a secret, but he wasn’t entirely surprised when Crowley hunched his shoulders and muttered something along the lines of, “Go ahead, rub it in.”

Then Crowley cleared his throat. “So, what _do_ you think of the humans? Overbearing? Obnoxious? Not folks you’d like to get to know?” he said, looking almost hopeful that the Siigan might suddenly declare that humans were terrible and that the Siigan race would break off all contact for seven thousand or so years.

“I think they are still young, but they have potential. It will be quite interesting, getting to know them better,” the Siigan said placidly.

Aziraphale smiled. “Well then,” he said. “I believe Captain Hoffman is quite eager to meet you.”

“I should have stayed home,” he thought he heard Crowley mutter, but when he turned to look, Crowley had apparently gotten over his inadvertent act of atonement and kindness or at least had decided to pretend he hadn’t had a hand in the Siigan deciding the humans were all right after all.

Crowley slid his sunglasses further down his nose and shot Aziraphale a look that would’ve been unreadable to anyone but Aziraphale[11]. As it happened, Aziraphale read his face perfectly well, and so was unsurprised when Crowley said, “Well? Let’s go make history. Well. _More_ history.”    

 

 

* * *

 

[1]Over time, humans had discovered the cure for focal distance errors, astigmatism, myopia, diplopia, macular degeneration, and every other eye condition. They had yet to eradicate the common cold.

[2]Peter didn’t recognize the name, but it _was_ next on the list.

[3]Crowley was of the opinion that he’d already made an effort in getting his name on that list. Actually _researching_ the people aboard the ship? That would be too much like actual work. Besides, Aziraphale would instinctively cover for him. Crowley knew the angel wouldn’t be able to help himself.

[4]…All right, so Crowley had made one small extra effort to get into one of the nicer cabins.

[5] Aziraphale was still waiting for the revival of print books. It hadn’t yet occurred to him that such a revival might never happen, except perhaps in the private homes of Luddites and especially nostalgic librarians.

[6]Not all plants are alcoholics. In fact, the majority of them are proud teetotalers. Aziraphale rather suspected, however, that any plant living with Crowley would need the occasional stiff drink to survive.

This is why a short time later, when Crowley isn’t watching, Aziraphale will pour a few drops of his own wine into the plant’s pot as well.

[7]He had kept the ship from exploding seven times, and prevented a certain hapless diplomat from launching his room into space another three. This being a trip that lasted six months, however, Aziraphale was nevertheless still left with quite a bit of free time.

[8]After six months, the diplomats and translators had failed to come up with a satisfactory translation of the name of the Siigan’s world. Captain Hoffman had been heard to dryly remark that she would simply refer to it as “your world” and hope for the best.

[9]“Er” from Crowley was never a good sign. “Er” heralded events like the arrival of the Antichrist or that unfortunate business with Sodom and Gomorrah. Aziraphale disliked “er” very much.

[10]That particular comment caused Aziraphale to wonder why, exactly, Metatron had neglected to mention who the Siigan were and their history when he’d sent Aziraphale on the mission. Perhaps He had ordered him not to. Perhaps there was some ineffable reason to keep Aziraphale in ignorance.

Aziraphale still felt a little foolish. Though not as much as Crowley did.  

[11]As it happened, Crowley’s expression was a mix of consternation, amusement, and curiosity. All in all, it was a look that fairly screamed to Aziraphale, “Let’s go see what happens next, shall we?”  


End file.
